“Hard on your right oar, boatman!” The command, uttered in a voice just above a whisper, came from a dark-cloaked man standing in the bow of the skiff. The riverman grunted and strained against the rapidly flowing river that seemed determined to sweep them past the destination they sought.

“So soon…” Although they were softly said, the Woman’s words came clearly to the man who directed the progress of the little vessel.

“I hope it is soon enough,” he replied. The bundle that lay in the stern stirred slightly, but nothing further was said. The standing man gave additional directions to the rower, then spoke again to his companion. “Have courage, wife. Our fate must not be tied with his!”

The mighty stones of the city wall thrust into the Selintan as if they were the prow of a titanic ship of granite. The towering blocks formed The Citadel, the strongest and most heavily fortified portion of Grey-hawk City. The Citadel was the heart of authority in the city, its fortress and palace, administrative center and garrison. Few people, citizens or travelers, sought out this place, yet the little boat was headed precisely there. With no small amount of effort, the riverman managed to steer the skiff into the shadow-black finger of water that curled around the southern face of the bastion.

Again the standing man gave orders. “Quietly now,” he hissed. “Keep straight on.” The rower softened his stroke and sent the boat ahead slowly. Then… “Cease rowing,” the black-cloaked passenger commanded.

The boatman made an imperceptible gesture, a sign to ward off evil, as his skiff thumped against granite. Although the fog didn’t allow the oar-handler to see more than a few feet away, the man he carried had known about… seen… the stones jutting out of the water around the hidden landing. “Demon-sight,” the boatman muttered under his breath.

“Call it cat’s eyes,” the cloaked man countered.